


Just This Once

by crackinthecup



Series: Ends and Beginnings [17]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Melkor, Drinking, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Play, Role Reversal, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28031655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: "Mairon opened his mouth, but no words came out. He did not know how to even begin to articulate the feeling that had gripped him, love that was lust that was a dark, fierce craving throbbing in his stomach: a need to touch and to possess, to take Melkor and break him open until the boundaries between lord and lieutenant ceased to matter.He was Melkor’s, that much was true, had always been true; but Melkor was alsohis."It is a night of revelry in Angband: spirits are high, drink is flowing freely, and Mairon makes a bold request.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Series: Ends and Beginnings [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112774
Comments: 14
Kudos: 72





	Just This Once

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elevenelvenswords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elevenelvenswords/gifts).



The torchlight blurred across Mairon’s eyes as he walked at his master’s side through Angband’s upper corridors, away from the festivities in the great hall. The celebrations had started early that night, welcoming the new year with the finest food and drink that Angband’s pantries and cellars had to offer.

Mairon readjusted his grip on the bottle of whiskey held loosely in his hand. It was the latest of many; he had lost count around the time when Gothmog had beckoned him over and pointed at the cask of liquor propped up on the table, bellowing something about having saved the good stuff just for him.

The alcohol had burned its way down Mairon’s throat in copious quantities, and it still burned in his veins now, bright and lulling, making his steps unsteady and loosening his tongue.

“So I was talking to Gothmog, right,” he was saying to Melkor, gesticulating with his bottle so enthusiastically that some of the whiskey sploshed out, “and he said I’ve got a reputation for not being able to hold my liquor, and you know what I did?” He paused for dramatic effect. “I bet him a whole week’s worth of training grounds duty that I’d drink him under the table.”

Melkor arched an eyebrow at him. “Now, why would you do such a thing?”

“It was a _challenge_. I couldn’t let it go unanswered.”

“You could have and in fact you should have,” Melkor retorted, clasping a hand around Mairon’s upper arm to steady him as his steps suddenly faltered; Mairon came to a stop, looking up at him with bright eyes and flushed cheeks, and it took Melkor several seconds to speak again. “Drinking challenges aren’t your forte. You’re a lightweight, Mairon.”

“I am not!” Mairon protested, but his words came out less sharply than he had intended. He was standing close to Melkor, not quite touching but in that lovely space where he _could_ touch if he wanted to; it made heat bubble in his stomach, made his thoughts hazy and his hands impatient.

By the look on Melkor’s face, their proximity was having a similar effect on him. His eyes flicked downwards to Mairon’s lips, and they lingered there, dark and hungry.

“You absolutely are a lightweight,” he replied, making it sound more like an endearment than an insult. His hands slipped to Mairon’s face, gloved fingers cool against his heated cheeks as he titled his head up. Their lips brushed, chaste and tender, a not-quite-kiss.

Mairon didn’t know who started it. All he knew was that a moment later his free hand was knotted in Melkor’s hair and Melkor’s tongue was sliding against his own, right there in the hallway under the warm flicker of the torchlight.

“My lor— _oh_.”

They startled apart at the sudden voice, looking up in unison at the Orc who had spoken.

A beat passed in stunned silence, and then another and another.

Melkor was the first to recover.

“Sholdosh,” he said in greeting, giving the Orc a cordial nod. “Happy New Year.”

A giggle bubbled up Mairon’s throat and he turned it into an awkward cough, taking a generous swig from his bottle.

Sholdosh blinked at them, mouth working soundlessly for a few seconds.

“I, um…” they stammered, looking from Mairon to Melkor then back to Mairon, who seemed to be trying to find out just how much whiskey he could down in one go.

“Don’t let us keep you from the celebrations,” Melkor said pointedly, and Sholdosh finally snapped to attention, hurriedly bending at the waist in a shallow bow.

“Happy New Year, my lords,” they said quickly, then took off at a brisk pace, muttering indistinctly to themselves.

Mairon watched their retreating form until they turned a corner and disappeared out of his sight, probably in the direction of the throne room and the festivities still in full swing.

“This will be the talk of the whole fortress for _weeks_ ,” he groaned.

Melkor let out a crude snort of laughter. “Surely not—this isn’t news to anyone.”

“Seemed to be news to Sholdosh.”

“Then they must have been living under a rock all this time.” Melkor pulled him close again with an arm looped around his waist. “But come, there are far more pleasurable things we could be doing than talking about Sholdosh.”

He made to capture Mairon’s lips in another kiss, but Mairon turned his head away, whispering, “Not here.”

Melkor rolled his eyes at him, kissing him anyway, a teasing brush of the lips that made Mairon’s knees weak.

“Let’s go, then,” he said, beginning to tug Mairon away, down the hallway towards his chambers.

They did not run into anyone else along the way, and Mairon was glad of it. His steps were wobbly, his fingers laced through Melkor’s own half for support and half for the intimacy of it. The alcohol had softened his edges, Melkor’s edges too, and he felt warm and giddy as though the world was young and eternity lay before them bursting with possibility.

He lost track of time as Melkor led him through Angband’s labyrinthine corridors; it could have been minutes or it could have been hours before he found himself trailing Melkor through the door to his chambers and then, finally, into his bedroom.

It was dark and silent here. The walls were thick, carved out of the living rock of the mountains, insulating them from the hubbub in the rest of the fortress. Like one in a trance, Mairon stopped in the doorway, eyes instinctively drawn to Melkor as he moved through the chamber, a figure of deeper darkness melting into the shadows. As he went, Melkor plucked the bottle from Mairon’s fingers, taking a sip of whiskey before setting it down on one of the bedside tables. He then murmured a word of power, and the fire in the hearth burst into life, as did the numerous candles dotted throughout the room.

Mairon blinked in the sudden golden light. “These are new,” he said, indicating the candles that had not been there a few days ago.

Melkor smiled, and it seemed so tender in that flickering light, so inviting, so irresistible.

“Do you like them?” he asked, returning to where Mairon was still standing in the doorway, touching him with gentle hands that first wandered over his shirt and then slithered under it.

Mairon let out a soft moan, the slide of Melkor’s gloved fingers over his skin making him squirm and shiver.

“I do,” he replied, standing on tiptoe to press a lingering kiss to Melkor’s lips, “though I liked the darkness too.”

Melkor hummed low in his throat. “It makes you look beautiful, this light,” he murmured, and Mairon found his shirt being pulled away, found Melkor’s hands touching him again, more fervently now, brushing over his nipples and sliding down to his hips. “More beautiful than you already are, if such a thing is even possible. It catches in your hair, shines in your eyes, makes you burn more brightly than any flame.”

Heat spilled over Mairon’s cheeks at Melkor’s words, but his smile was sharp as he said, “You’re flattering me, which normally means you want something.”

“Am I being that obvious?”

“Always, my lord,” Mairon said, or tried to say, but Melkor’s hand had crept downwards and was now cupping the bulge at the front of his breeches, and his words slurred together without his permission.

Melkor laughed, a dark, indulgent sound. “I could say the same of you,” he said, giving Mairon another squeeze that made little pinpricks of light flicker in his vision. Then he abruptly stopped touching him, leaving Mairon to grind himself against thin air with a groan of thwarted arousal on his lips.

But Melkor was in no mood to tease tonight. A second later he took Mairon by the hand, tugging him towards the bed, giving him a push that had him tumbling backwards into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress. Mairon gasped, a wave of drunkenness washing over him at the unexpected movement. He looked up at Melkor who was standing before him still fully dressed in his ceremonial finery, the Silmarils glittering cold and fey upon his brow.

A grin curved over Melkor’s lips, a challenge, a glimmer of sharp teeth in the flickering light; but when he spoke his voice was soft, hypnotic almost, and Mairon listened to him as though they were the only two beings in the world: “We have come to the end of a long year, little one. Our griefs were many and our labours were hard, but they have at last borne fruit: the leaguer of the Noldorin usurpers is broken, and we are on the edge of a momentous victory that will shape the fate of Arda.” He paused, and it was with tenderness that he met Mairon’s gaze. “What would you like to do tonight? The choice is yours. Consider it a token of my appreciation.”

Mairon opened his mouth, but no words came out. He did not know how to even begin to articulate the feeling that had gripped him, love that was lust that was a dark, fierce craving throbbing in his stomach: a need to touch and to possess, to take Melkor and break him open until the boundaries between lord and lieutenant ceased to matter.

He was Melkor’s, that much was true, had always been true; but Melkor was also _his_.

He let his consciousness wander, opening his mind to Melkor, letting him see what words could not express.

Melkor drew in a sharp breath, loud in the silence that had fallen.

“That is a bold request,” he said slowly.

Mairon could feel the drum of his heartbeat in his throat. “Too bold?”

“Perhaps.” For a moment, Mairon was sure that Melkor would refuse, and he turned his face away, disappointment already churning in his stomach; but then Melkor sank to his knees before him, between his parted thighs, and continued in a low voice, “But I said the choice would be yours and I will keep my word. Your loyalty has earned you this much. For tonight I am yours to command, _my lord_.”

Mairon felt like the world had cracked open underneath him and he was falling, plummeting, sucked into a place where the rules were far stranger than in his own life.

It took him a couple of tries to get his tongue working again.

“Touch me,” he said, too rough, too eager, and instantly blushed to hear himself speaking like this to his master; but any awkwardness he might have felt was swept away under the rush of power flowing through him, lighting him up from the inside, a brilliant, vicious thrill like diamonds crushed between his teeth.

With deft little touches Melkor undid the lacings on his breeches. As soon as his cock sprang free, Mairon reached for his master, tangling his fingers in his hair and yanking him close. Melkor let out a hiss of pain at the sharp pull on his scalp, but Mairon did not stop, could not stop, did not _want_ to stop. It was exquisite to have the most powerful being in Arda on his knees before him, and something brash and sadistic in him wanted to see how much further he could push, what else Melkor would be willing to let him do to him, and yes, he thought, Melkor was _letting_ this happen and it was all the more delicious for it; he would allow Mairon this honour, this one glimpse of vulnerability that no one else would ever get to see, and the thought alone made Mairon _ache_.

“Patience, _my lord_ ,” Melkor laughed as Mairon pulled him closer still. “Let me take my crown off.”

“No,” Mairon hissed, tightening his hold on Melkor’s hair just to see him wince, “you will keep it on.” He pressed a thumb to Melkor’s lips, roughly dragging them apart, and in that moment he knew exactly what he wanted Melkor to do. “Use your mouth,” he commanded, and Melkor blinked up at him, the blue in his eyes deepening to something dark and wanting that stole the breath from Mairon’s lungs.

Mairon openly stared as Melkor did as he was told: opening his mouth, letting him slide across his tongue, hollowing his cheeks as he lapped at his underside in gentle little motions. Mairon’s hips bucked of their own accord, and he was powerless to stop the dizzying rush of arousal in his stomach as Melkor flicked his tongue over his tip.

But it wasn’t enough; violence trembled in his fingertips, and he slipped both hands to the back of Melkor’s skull, knocking his crown askew as he pulled him flush against his pelvis, too much, too soon. Melkor gagged and it only served to spur Mairon onwards, higher and higher and _higher_ , aglow with something halfway between desire and madness. He pushed himself even deeper down Melkor’s throat, holding him there far beyond what he knew to be comfortable, and only let go when Melkor bodily wrenched himself away.

“Is this how you would treat your subjects, my lord?” Melkor demanded, voice rough, lingering on _my lord_ in preternatural echo; he made no move to readjust his crown.

“Not all my subjects,” Mairon murmured. “Just you.”

At that Melkor laughed, soft and knowing. He leaned in again, one hand curling around the base of Mairon’s cock while the other pushed his legs further apart; he parted his lips and took him down deep, letting him slide to the back of his throat, over and over again in a breathtaking rhythm.

Mairon moaned, loud and careless of it; he tangled his fingers into Melkor’s hair again, more loosely this time, not to hold him in place but simply to touch him, to cradle him close. It was all too easy to lose himself in the pleasure of Melkor’s touch, pleasure that burned and boiled, pleasure that took him apart.

He could feel himself starting to tip over the edge; he was sure that Melkor could feel it too because he quickened his pace, and Mairon would have cried out if he could have remembered how.

With an immense effort of will, he dragged Melkor away by the hair. Though his cock ached and Melkor looked at him with glistening lips and eyes dark with lust, he held him at a distance, not letting him touch again.

“I want to fuck you,” he said, the words tumbling from him before he even realised it, too blunt between the ragged fall of his breaths. It was true, of course: how many times had he imagined it, lonely in his bed, his fist curled around his own cock? It was true, and now it was out in the open, like a vital wound suddenly exposed to prying eyes.

“You want to fuck me,” Melkor repeated, an edge creeping into his voice, something hard and dangerous. “From anyone else that would border on treason.”

Mairon smiled, dizzy and reckless, holding Melkor’s gaze. “I know.”

The seconds crawled past, silent, charged with doom like the coming of a storm.

But then Melkor relaxed, sitting back more comfortably on his heels, and the tension disappeared.

“I must have a word with Gothmog,” he muttered with a shake of the head. “Too much drink makes you impudent.”

Mairon took him by the chin, nearly trembling with the boldness of the action. “What is your answer?”

Melkor let out a disbelieving snort of laughter; but then he seemed to soften ever so slightly, and he looked away, staring into the golden flame of the candle on the bedside table.

“I shall allow it,” he said at length, and Mairon’s heart skipped a beat. “Just this once.”

It was the answer Mairon had hoped for, had dreamed of during his long years in Melkor’s service; it was not the answer he had expected.

“Why?” he asked with a gentleness that surprised him.

“Does it matter?”

“Of course.” He stroked a thumb over Melkor’s cheek, searching his face for something he could not name. “I have no desire to do this if it is not what you truly want.”

“Oh, Mairon,” Melkor said and he kissed him, making him taste himself, making him forget his train of thought, “you need to learn to take what you’re given. I said I would allow this. Get on with it.”

Mairon nodded, not pressing the matter. If Melkor did not wish to share his reasons with him, then he would not pry; it was hardly the time for an honest heart-to-heart, but a strange mood had come over him that he could not shake. He had imagined grabbing Melkor and throwing him upon the bed, tearing his clothes from him, fucking him until he screamed: touching him in every aching, hurtful way he himself had been touched over the years.

Yet here he was, and he found himself reaching out to Melkor not with violence but with gentleness, with a reverence that left him speechless. Slowly, he grasped Melkor’s crown between his palms, careful not to touch the burning jewels, and lifted it from his head. He couldn’t help but stare at it, marvelling at its weight, like richest ore that resented each second spent outside of the earth’s dark belly. It did not feel like normal metal, and perhaps it wasn’t, for it had been forged not by any craftsman’s hand but by his master’s fey spell-craft; or perhaps it was not the metal at all that gave it its preternatural weight but the Silmarils, those jewels bleeding out their ceaseless light, making his skin itch and his eyes burn. Either way, he gingerly placed it on the bedside table and then turned to look at his master, and it was like a fog had lifted and he could see him clearly for the first time in years.

He wanted to ask about the crown, and the jewels; he wanted to ask why Melkor was doing this to himself, wearing that crown day after day as it bowed his head and made him hurt. But Melkor wasn’t looking at him anymore; his eyes were fixed on his crown, and the shifting, flickering candlelight striped his face in red as though he was drenched in ghostly blood.

He seemed so far away all of a sudden, and Mairon did the only thing he could think of: he touched him, deft fingers undoing his robes, stripping off his shirt to get to the skin underneath, touching and touching until Melkor shook his head, seeming to shrug off whatever dark thought had gripped him.

Mairon took him by the hand, and, driven by a raw, trembling tenderness that he did not entirely understand, pressed a kiss to his gloved knuckles. Melkor looked at him strangely, but said nothing as he was tugged to his feet; he remained unusually pliant as Mairon stripped him of the rest of his clothing, as he manoeuvered him to lie down on his back among the pillows.

Mairon joined him, kicking off his boots and breeches as he went. He settled himself between Melkor’s thighs, nudging them apart, letting Melkor wrap his arms around his shoulders and pull him close; he felt drunk, drunk not from the alcohol still coursing merrily through his veins but from this, this lovely impossibility, Melkor beneath him, pressed up against him, open and wanting.

“How long have you wanted this?” Melkor asked, breath hot against the skin of his throat.

“Years,” Mairon replied truthfully, giving a slight shrug. “I think I’ve always wanted you like this.”

He kissed him then, not waiting for a reply, wrapping rough fingers around his jaw and tilting his head upwards. Their lips met, all tongue and teeth, a slow, smouldering heat and the intoxicating taste of blood pooling on his tongue from a split in someone’s lip—Melkor’s lip, he realised, catching himself as he sucked it between his teeth, as he bit down just that little bit too hard. Melkor let out a small moan, kissing him back all the more fiercely, and Mairon growled, trembling, torn between needing more and not wanting to rush this.

It took effort, but he managed to pull himself away, upwards, coming to kneel between Melkor’s parted thighs. He reached over to the bedside drawer and fished out the vial of oil from where he knew Melkor had stashed it. He slicked his fingers in it, slowly, half-convinced that this was all an elaborate dream born of his inebriation and that he would wake up anytime now.

But it wasn’t, and he didn’t, and Melkor sprawled out beneath him was as solid and real as he had ever been. Mairon trailed his fingers down his stomach, lightly stroking his cock left hard and flushed against his stomach, low and lower until he brushed against his entrance.

Melkor tensed, the slightest tightening of muscles, and Mairon paused for a brief moment, letting out a slow, shaky breath.

It felt like sacrilege, sinking into flesh that had been made holy; it would have felt like damnation, if he hadn’t already damned himself long ago.

Melkor remained silent as Mairon worked him open, slowly adding a second finger to the first and setting a gentle rhythm, more careful than he had ever been with anything else in his life. As he continued, Mairon watched his master, hungrily studying his face, but Melkor had retreated somewhere beyond his reach; he had closed his eyes, hardly even breathing, and all the indication Mairon got that he was feeling this at all was the clench of his fingers into the sheets.

At last Mairon couldn’t bear it any longer. He gingerly withdrew his fingers, planting his hands on Melkor’s thighs, keeping him spread.

“May I?” he asked, unable to keep his voice from shaking.

“Do what you will, lieutenant,” Melkor said, and Mairon thought about reminding him of the rules of their little game, that he should be addressed as _my lord_ , but he didn’t; he could sense without words that that game was over and a new one had begun, a more dangerous game, a game of yielding flesh and wanting hearts and things left unsaid.

Mairon closed his eyes, breathing hard, wrapping a rough hand over the base of his own erection to prevent himself from spilling prematurely. He moved into position slowly, as though any fast movements might shatter this moment, might take it away from him forever and he would be left with nothing but this ache in his innards.

He slathered a generous amount of oil over his cock, gently guiding himself between Melkor’s thighs. After a moment of resistance, a slight shifting of limbs as Melkor wrapped his legs around his waist, Mairon sank into him, gasping as Melkor’s warmth enveloped him. His hips rocked forwards of their own accord, deeper and deeper until he was sheathed to the hilt. Melkor was silent except for the tiniest grunt of pleasure or pain or something in between, but he was trembling or perhaps it was Mairon who was trembling or the room itself shaking ever so slightly as though reality had come undone, fraying at the edges, collapsing into this other wondrous world where things like this were possible.

“Move, Mairon,” Melkor growled, and Mairon blinked, realising he had been holding himself still.

He hesitated; the pleasure storming through him was wild, a greedy, frenzied thing, and he felt that if he moved he would surely come apart at the seams. But suddenly there he was, rocking against his master, pressing flush against him. He tucked his face against the side of Melkor’s neck, and Melkor moaned, a soft, strangled sound, and something inside Mairon seemed to _break_ ; he grabbed Melkor’s wrists, pinning them to the bed on either side of his head, holding him still as he built his rhythm, slow and gentle or was it fast and hard? He couldn’t tell, all he could do was move, burying himself into Melkor’s body over and over again, and it was nothing like he’d expected, it was not taking but _offering_ , throwing himself into his master and being consumed.

Melkor said something that Mairon didn’t quite catch; it might have been his name or it might have been something else entirely. He raised his head, dragging his lips over Melkor’s jaw, pressing a tiny kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Are you all right?” he asked, hoarse and breathless.

Melkor nodded tightly, pressing himself into another kiss, a deeper kiss, a desperate slide of lips and tongues. Mairon released his wrists to slip a hand down between their joined bodies, wrapping his fingers around Melkor’s cock, finding him hard and dripping. He stroked him in time with his thrusts, and Melkor arched his hips into his touch, tensing up around him; an instant later Mairon tore himself away from their kiss, arousal burning like a living flame in his stomach, his thrusts faltering as he teetered on the brink of orgasm.

“M-my lord,” he mumbled, barely coherent, “I— _ah_ —I can’t…” He couldn’t hold back, he meant, couldn’t wait for Melkor to finish first, but it was so hard to form words, it was so hard to do anything except fall apart.

“Just let go,” Melkor said, grasping his meaning. He rocked against Mairon’s thrusts, one hand knotting through his hair and tugging hard, and Mairon was powerless to delay his orgasm any longer; he shuddered through his release, slamming up inside of Melkor as deep as he could go, nearly screaming out his pleasure.

He came down from his peak slowly, a glowing sort of torpor dragging at his bones. He would have liked nothing better than to collapse onto the bed and drift off to sleep, but he was all too keenly aware of Melkor’s cock still hard and straining in his hand.

He swallowed, tried to get his voice working again. “I can take you in my mouth, if you want,” he offered between laboured breaths, “or I could spread my legs for you.”

“This is good,” Melkor said, breathless in his own right, thrusting himself into Mairon’s hand. “Just—”

“Yes.” Mairon carefully withdrew from between Melkor’s legs, but he stayed close, nestling against his side. He started stroking him again, scraping his fingers up and down his length. With his head resting on Melkor’s chest, he could feel his breathing quicken, could hear the pounding of his heart, and he smiled, tightening his grip, delighting in the involuntary buck of Melkor’s hips.

Melkor must have been agonisingly close, Mairon realised; it didn’t take long at all, just a few flicks of the wrist to have Melkor panting beneath him, grinding himself into his palm as he spilled his seed over Mairon’s fingers and his own stomach.

Everything was still in the aftermath, still and quiet, as the sweat cooled on their bodies and their breathing slowly returned to normal. Mairon found himself staring at his master rather helplessly: he was a mess, flushed cheeks and mussed hair, and all the more beautiful for it.

“Are you hurt?” Mairon asked once the silence had grown long.

Melkor let out a tired laugh, propping himself up on one elbow and reaching over Mairon for the half-finished bottle of whiskey on the bedside table.

“I’m not made of glass, Mairon,” he said mildly, taking a swig from the bottle. “You’ll have to do more than that to hurt me.”

Mairon plucked the bottle out of his hand and took a generous gulp himself. “Did you enjoy yourself, then?”

“It was pleasant enough, I suppose.”

Mairon elbowed him in the ribs, willfully keeping the bottle out of Melkor’s reach when he made to grab for it.

“Fine, fine,” Melkor conceded, pressing a placating kiss to Mairon’s cheek, and then to his mouth as Mairon turned his head, craving the contact. “You were exquisite.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Mairon murmured, smiling, deepening their kiss.

Melkor sucked his bottom lip between his teeth in an echo of what Mairon had done to him earlier, biting down till Mairon moaned with the sting of it. “I really must speak to Gothmog,” he said against Mairon’s lips. “You should be kept as far away from liquor as possible when we next have a feast. It does horrible things to your manners.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Mairon said, letting the nearly empty bottle roll off the edge of the bed as he wrapped his arms around Melkor’s shoulders and pulled him close.

Whatever else Melkor might have wanted to say was lost in another heated kiss, followed by another and then another; the night was still young, and Mairon allowed himself to melt into his master, lost in the tangle of bodies and the bliss of the moment and the surety of their reign in the wide lands of Beleriand.


End file.
